Night of the Heroes

by Adrian Cole

With a determined roar of its engines, the plane dropped lower, surging through the swirling clouds, undercarriage unfurling, thick tyres reaching for the ground. Holland could see the blur of the ground. “Indiana Jones has got nothing on this,” he grunted, fists clenching as if he was already preparing for a heavy landing.

  “This is it,” called Hicks. “Hit or bust! Think of the pay-cheque.”

  The tyres were inches from the strip. They were right on the money: the flattened grass stretched ahead, the rain clouds parting enough to display it. From here it looked no more than fifty feet long, but they knew it would accommodate them. Hicks skillfully inched the plane lower, until the wheels hit, bounced, hit, bounced again and then made contact and held, the plane bumping and rattling along as if suspension had never been invented.

  Hicks eased the throttle, holding the bucking aircraft as if he were riding a bronc in a rodeo, his face a mask of sweat, his concentration rigid. Half way down the makeshift runway he began to beam. “We’re going to make it, Alec. May end up in someone’s farmyard, but we’re okay.”

  Holland realised he had been holding his breath: he let it out in a great gasp, eyes still riveted on the ground ahead. Rain lashed in, driven by the furious wind, as though it bitterly resented their escape. As their speed began to drop, their headlong plunge easing, another crash of thunder, overhead this time, seemed to shake every nut and bolt in the plane.

  Hicks felt the wheel jerk as the wheels slewed in the soft bed of the runway. The ground was normally packed hard, tight as concrete, but the rain had been heavy for twenty-four hours. Hicks swore as he fought for control.

  “Hold her, Tommy!” Holland yelled, sensing trouble.

  But the skid worsened, and within moments the plane was veering away, off the runway. Hicks gripped the wheel for dear life, preventing a complete disaster, but the best he could manage was to ease the craft into its diagonal drive, ploughing up a torrent of mud and water, which, mercifully, helped slow the plane.

  Holland gaped, sure that they would flip over. If they’d been on tarmac and skidded like this, they would have done, over and over. But the soft ground that had caused the disaster was, ironically, to prove their saving grace. The wheels ripped away and the plane shot forward on her belly, sliding through the sodden field beside the runway like a demented surf-boarder.

  “I’ve got her, I’ve got her!” Hicks insisted, trying to see through the sheets of flying spray and mud. But the plane was slowing, gradually pulling up.

  “Keep her in the field!” Holland yelled above the protesting roar of the engines. “The mere is beyond it! Don’t drop us in there, for the love of Ada!”

  Hicks nodded furiously, trying to keep down rising panic. How much room did he have? How much time before this old bucket ground to a halt? Ahead, the rain curtain parted briefly, as if to mock him with the view. The mere was no more than fifty yards ahead.

  Hicks cursed roundly, again working the controls like a madman, forcing the wheel-less beast to turn its blunt nose away from the inadequate fencing. He was partially successful, but as the tail began to swing, he felt it pulling, encouraged by another wild buffet of the wind. There was an almighty crash, the entire craft rocking. Then, incredibly, the plane had shuddered to a halt.

  Holland was flung forward, but he was laughing in spite of the disaster. He staggered to his feet and clapped Hicks about the shoulders. “Jeeze, Tommy, I really thought we’d bought it.”

  Hicks wiped his sweat-streaked face. “Break out the clean trousers. You thought we’d bought it!”

  Holland’s grin froze. “Hang on, though. We’re not out of this mess yet. We did hit the mere. The back end —”

  “The cargo!” gasped Hicks, and together they turned, trying to force open the door back to the hold. But it was jammed tight, compressed shut by the crash. They spared the time for one exchanged glance of horror before struggling out of the side door, dropping down on to the spongy turf. Together they ran the length of the stranded craft, only to find that the last section of the plane had taken the worst of it. Not only had it swung out into the cold, dark waters of the mere, but it was torn practically in half.

  Without a word, they clambered up on to the fuselage, picking their way cautiously through the darkness. Holland dragged a torch from his belt and directed the beam at the tail section. It had collapsed like cardboard.

  “This old bird will never fly again,” Hicks murmured.

  “How about the cargo?”

  “If it was as delicate as Llewellyn implied, it’s likely in a thousand bits. I guess it reduces the pay packet, old man.”

  “Too bloody true. Come on, we’d better salvage what we can.”

  Hicks looked back over the field, where the rain still streaked in, blotting all but the immediate view. “Where’s the reception? Llewellyn’s men should be here. They must have seen us prang.”

  “Worry about them later. Let’s get to the cargo.”

  Hicks nodded, following Holland over the twisted spars and ripped sheets of metal. He had his own torch out and together they used their beams to probe what was left of the cargo hold. There was a way in, a huge section torn away, while below it the floor of the hold leaned at a grotesque angle, plunging down into the water. In this light it looked like oil.

  “See anything?” said Hicks as Holland swung into the hold, gripping a stanchion and flashing his torch right inside the cavity.

  “Bugger it. Empty.”

  “Empty? But the blessed thing was chained down.”

  “Didn’t hold her. I can see the chains. Snapped clean off. Which means —”

  Hicks gaped at the water. “It’s in the bloody lake.”

  “Right first time.”

  They swung down as close to the water as they could get. “How deep?” grunted Holland.

  “Dunno. We’re only a few yards from the shore. But the bottom will be so churned up by the crash, you won’t see more than an inch or two. Bad enough in daylight.”

  As they probed the surface hopefully, but resigned to defeat, a sudden stab of light caught them unawares. They straightened up, watching the bank of the mere beyond the wreckage of the tail, where a group of onlookers studied them.

  “They’re here,” said Hicks with a grimace. “I hope to Christ Llewellyn isn’t with them. He’ll send us into the lake for his cargo.”

  * * * *

  Their cargo had, in fact, burst from its hold, ripping through the thin metal skin of the aircraft, before plunging into the darkness of the mere. It sank at once, but no more than four feet below the surface, embedding itself in the mud there. But as it had been smashed into the side of the cargo hold, erupting from it, the thick planks of the long box had cracked and splintered. Like the torn body of the plane, the huge crate was also ruptured.

  Within it, jarred awake not by the impact of the crash and the resultant plummet into the mere but by the intrusion of the cold water, the creature stirred. It opened its eyes and mind on unfamiliar surroundings. But it was at home in water as it was on land. And the drugs that had been administered to it to subdue it had worn off. The water, cold and muddied though it was, revived it. Although it was hungry, it felt its strength returning by the minute. It had no idea where it was, but it wasted no time deliberating.

  Using its enormously powerful arms, it probed the crate, realising at once that its erstwhile prison was damaged. It thrust with all its superhuman might against the planks. Weakened, they parted like rotten curtains. The creature rolled through the gap and out into the mere. Pausing briefly to study its aquatic surroundings, it pulled away from the bank with powerful strokes, diving down to the bottom of the lake where it could not be detected by any observers. It sensed torch beams playing on the surface above, but none of them came within yards. Ahead, where the reed beds were thickest, it took cover, assessing its position.

  How long have I been in flight? He asked himself. I remember the laboratory, somewhere in the swamplands of the States. But they we
re bringing me to England. In secret. Private charter. Government funds. God knows what they’ve got in mind for me. Test after test. And they’re not going to do it for my own good. They want to use me for their own ends. The last word in chemical warfare. And they don’t want me as I was. Human. Alexander Cradoc.

  He eased his way to the surface, masked by the night and the reeds. His eyes took in the scene across the mere, his vision excellent. There were a dozen or more men fussing like ants over the twisted wreck of the plane. So that was it! It had crashed.

  A clap of thunder sounded overhead like a confirmation. The rain still beat down steadily, its drizzling sheets lit by regular flares of lightning, which picked out the scene clear as day. The plane had come off the runway, swung round, flinging its cargo out into the mere, ironically the one place where it would be safe. And he, amazingly, was free. How big was the mere? He looked around carefully. Half a mile long, and a few hundred yards across, he guessed.

  They’d have frogmen down in the morning, armed with stunners, herding him the way they would repel sharks, forcing him into a steel net, dragging him back into their possession. He knew all about their methods.

  They must have tried to land here for a reason, Cradoc told himself. Their base must be nearby. And it will be way out off the beaten track. Chemical research centre, probably. Restricted area. I’ll find it, you bastards. And I’ll find you before you know it.

  Maybe, just maybe, they’d expect him to get as far away from here as he could. And maybe the last thing they’d be anticipating was for him to confront them. They can make me what I once was, before the accident. If he believed in anything, it had to be that.

  * * * *

  Hicks and Holland slumped on the packing cases in the hangar, watching the steady drizzle through the doors. A solitary figure stood by them, pulling lazily on a cigarette, blowing clouds of smoke out into the night. It turned, grinding out the stub of the cigarette with studied deliberation and came over to the pilots.

  Richard Llewellyn reeked of power and position. His suit and long coat had cost what would have been a year’s salary to Hicks and he had a manner to go with it. “Bit of a mess,” he said in his cold, clipped way.

  “Landing in this was a gamble,” said Hicks.

  “Sure,” said the scientist non-commitally. “They’ll have it up in another hour. Water won’t harm it. Then you can be paid, in full.”

  The pilots exchanged glances. “Is that so?” said Hicks, surprised.

  “Of course. Unless there are complications.”

  There was no point asking him what the cargo was. They’d been over that a dozen times on the flight across the Atlantic. Hicks was convinced it was alive, whatever it was.

  Thunder boomed like cannon-fire above them. In the accompanying blaze of lightning, Holland thought he saw something beyond the wide doors. Llewellyn’s eyes missed nothing. He saw Holland’s expression and swung round. But the night had gone pitch once more.

  “You’re a little edgy,” Llewellyn told Holland. “Relax. We’ll fly you out once the storm’s done.”

  Holland stood up slowly. “I think we’ve got company. Maybe someone saw us come down —”

  “I doubt it. People tend to keep away from our establishment. They know we don’t like being disturbed.” But he walked slowly towards the doors, brushing imaginary ash from his lapel. Lightning stabbed down at the ground outside, washing it vividly. And a shape moved forward. Llewellyn’s calmness dissolved. He groped inside his coat for something.

  Behind him, the two pilots were also on their feet, eyes bulging.

  Alex Cradoc shambled out of the night. He was seven feet tall, his body a misshapen blur, muddied and slick as if inexpertly moulded from earth and stone, tree and root. In that wide blob of a face, only the blood-red eyes could be seen, their hateful gaze fixed on Llewellyn. As the awesome figure shuffled forward, it left a thick trail of muck behind it, slug-like and viscous. It raised an arm, a thick trunk-like limb, ending in a spade-like hand.

  Llewellyn had tugged a weapon free, a fat-barreled pistol that was loaded not with a bullet, but with a drug. His hand shook as he tried to steady his aim.

  The Mire-Beast moved forward with surprising speed. The pilots watched in horror, rooted to the spot as the black maw of the creature’s mouth opened.

  Behind it, another blinding flash of lightning tore earthwards. The pilots were flung backwards as the bolt hit the ground nearby. They tumbled over and over, scrambling to their feet in renewed terror, eyes searching for the monstrous thing that had come out of the night.

  But it was gone. Llewellyn was sprawled on the floor of the hangar, unconscious, his weapon feet away. The pilots crept to him, eyes never leaving the darkness outside. But apart from the downpour, there was nothing there. Either the thing had fled, or they had imagined it. Llewellyn was stirring, but they expected no explanations from him.

  * * * *

  Mears shook his head, as if to refute what he had read. Hang on, hang on. Since when did this happen? Alex Cradoc had gone on the run. He’d met the girl, what was her name? Nina? Naomi? She’d been terrified at first, but then realised that this monstrous creature was not a threat, but somehow possessed of human qualities and a need to be understood. And the story ended with her vowing to help him recover what he needed from the research centre.

  Mears read the last page over and over. The storm kept recurring in the things he’d read tonight. He checked back over the Darkwing comic, then the paperback.

  There was still no sign of the archivist. Maybe he could shed some light on this.

  Meanwhile Mears reached for the next item on the table, the old hardback. Complete Adventures of Palgrave Reverence. He turned to the last story. Once he had begun it, he recognised it and began to look for any subtle variations in it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Detective

  “Come, come, Jameson, you are making an unnecessary fuss.” Palgrave Reverence bent down and stabbed with the poker at the glowing embers of the fire, his gaunt, saturnine face lit by the red glow, his high forehead gleaming, giving him for a fleeting moment an almost demonic aspect. He straightened up to his full six feet, thin mouth fixed in a hard line of resolution.

  “That’s not true, Reverence,” replied his companion from the relative comfort of his armchair. “You know how I feel about such things. It’s tempting fate.”

  The private detective snorted, running his hand back over his sleek black hair, though not a strand was out of place. “My dear chap, we are running out of ideas. I don’t like to admit it, but I have little alternative.”

  Jameson put down his newspaper irritably. “Yes, well, I remember the last time you resorted to the use of psychic power and it nearly brought disaster on us all.”

  “Hah! But we got our man, though.” Reverence bent down again and gave the fire another prod. Flames responded with a sharp crackle. “Fire with fire, Jameson.”

  “People who play with fire often get burnt.”

  Reverence suddenly spun round and swooped down on the other armchair, sitting forward, leaning towards his companion, eyes ablaze. “Consider the facts, Jameson. Three murders, none of them apparently related. Different parts of London, victims with different social backgrounds. One killed with a single knife wound, another by poison, the third thrown into a canal. No recognisable motive.”

  “Have you considered the possibility that they are not connected? Dozens of bodies are pulled out of the Thames every day. You can’t possibly expect to solve every murder committed in the city —”

  Reverence leaned back, putting his hands behind his head and staring furiously at the ceiling. “No, of course not. But I have a distinct feeling about these three deaths.” He got up as abruptly as he had sat down and left the room dramatically. Jameson could hear him rummaging about in the pantry at the end of the landing. In a moment, Reverence returned, banging down a jar on the small table beside his companion.

  “A jar of hone
y,” Jameson observed.

  “Precisely. Now, tell me, if you were plagued by wasps, how would you go about ridding yourself of the wretched creatures?”

  Jameson folded his newspaper and put it away. “You seem to be implying that I should set a trap, baited with honey.”

  “Quite so! Every schoolboy knows how to do it. A jar, with a little honey, though jam would do just as well, a pierced lid, thus —” He jabbed at the lid of the honey jar with a paperknife, a number of times. “You’ll note that the jagged edges of these holes point inwards. The wasp can enter, even if it needs to squeeze itself through. But getting out, ah, that is an altogether different proposition.”

  “You’ve ruined the lid, Reverence.”

  “But the wasp, Jameson! Trapped. Lured to its doom by the thing it craves most.” The detective sat down again, beaming as though he had made a significant point.

  “So you think these three people were lured to their deaths —”

  Reverence made a dismissive gesture with his hand, shaking his head. To anyone who was not his constant companion it would have seemed peevish, even insulting, but Jameson knew the detective’s foibles well enough.

  “Wrong track,” said Reverence.

  “Ah, then the three victims are the trap.”

  “Hah! Now you’re warming to it!”

  “Then you are the wasp.”

  “Yes!” Reverence grinned, as though the idea fanned his ego, as Jameson knew it certainly would.

  “But what makes you think these three are any different to any one of a dozen others?”

  “I said they were not apparently related. But they did have something in common. The police, typically, thought nothing of it.”

  Jameson could not help but grin. Reverence missed nothing, however obscure. Many were the villains who’d hanged on a shred, a morsel picked up by the uncanny methods of the detective. “Go on.”

  “The first of the three was a young clerk, Gerald Forstairs. It would have been a quick kill, from behind. A knife inserted expertly. No money was taken, or anything else of value. But something was taken. A glove. Forstairs would have struggled, though I’ve no doubt that more than one strong pair of hands restrained him. One glove lay beside his body. It was not considered significant.